Harry and Hermione's Hot Date
by Jhazkrast
Summary: When Ron isn't looking, Harry and Hermione go on a quick date! Sexual themes, magical drug use.


Harry Potter couldn't have known how serious things were getting in a northern part of England. Ginger and the rest of the chickens had escaped in a giant, flying hen machine made out of huts. Mr Tweedy was gawping at the inexplicable construction as it flapped away into the night sky. He couldn't be doing with this. All the chickens had left behind was destruction. Every wall of the barn containing the chicken pie machine had been blown away, and an oceans worth of gravy stretched in every direction. Mrs Tweedy was dead, and the dogs were splashing around in the rich, brown gloop.

"Organized... organized..." Mr Tweedy kept mumbling, until the great, flying machine had disappeared over the horizon. "...I told you they was organized." For a while longer he stared at the moon, and then trudged his way through the gravy for a nice sit down, upon Mrs Tweedy. Now that he'd finally moved, the dogs snapped to attention, and sat down before him obediently. Mr Tweedy had sunk his head into his hands, but glanced up at his dogs when he noticed them.

"It wasn't all in me 'ead after all, was it?" he asked them, as if they could understand. "Oh, I don't know what we're 'aving for dinner tonight, lads. We was gonna have all the apple pies in the world... but now, the chickens is gone. Mrs Tweedy is gone. The farm's gone. Everything's gone." While Mr Tweedy moped, the dogs returned to licking up the gravy, and soon Mr Tweedy's face went hard. "It was that bloody ginger one what done it all. I'd bet all five quid of me monthly take on it. If I could get me fingers round that chicken's neck right now... oooh, I'll tell you what lads, I'd take her to the chop and no mistake!"

"Do you know why those chickens escaped, you great fucking pudding?" came a terribly angry sounding voice.

"Eh!? Who's there? Who said that!?" Mr Tweedy demanded, springing up in a fright. It occured to him just how dark it had gotten, because he was encircled by shadows and even the dogs seemed bewildered. There came the roar of an engine, and a blinding flash of light, and Mr Tweedy was so frightened he thought his heart was going to pop like a bubble. Before he could react, a motorcycle came wheely-ing up like a galloping, metal steed, and riding it was a man in a white coat and a helmet. He was holding a barbaric looking spatula, and he thrust it so hard into Mr Tweedy's chest that the flat head came out through his back. The dogs were whimpering with their paws over their eyes, as Mr Tweedy keeled over and started gurgling up blood. Kicking his bike to a stop, the mysterious assailant stepped off the motorcycle, and removed his helmet, revealing a face flushed red with rage and a chef's hat. He grabbed the spatula and yanked it from Mr Tweedy in a gruesome, scarlet arc.

"They just managed to escape," he growled, lifting Mr Tweedy's head by the chin to force contact with those dimming eyes, "because they were so raw, they were still operating in the FUCKING FARMYARD!"

"Gordon... Ramsey..." Mr Tweedy sputtered through the blood gushing from his mouth. "Wh-What are you... doing back 'ere... m-mac? I-If you need the l-loo...it's round th-the back..."

"Cleaning up a fucking oil spill by the look of it! Which clumsy prick was carrying THAT bowl!?" Ramsey shrieked, throwing his arms out and making a full turn to gesture to the gravy all around. "If this was my kitchen Tweedy, I'd mince your fucking jaffa's into the special sauce! And just what the FUCK is this!?" Booting Mr Tweedy aside, Ramsey hoisted Mrs Tweedy's corpse up and shook it in disbelief. "WHY is the head chef fucking DEAD on the JOB!? Oh, do me a fucking favor. I've seen plastic, fucking, you know, pretend toy kitchens in nurseries more organized than this shambles!"

"Organized?" Mr Tweedy repeated, and his dying eyes pinged open, bright and lively. Brushing himself off, he stood up straight again and tensed his muscles, so the wound going through his heart sealed up. "Ramsey, what are you doing 'ere? This ain't a kitchen mac, I've told you before. Right now's a bad time, me farm just exploded."

Smiling in that hopeless, given up way, Ramsey shook his head, and paced around for a bit. Then he flung Mrs Tweedy aside, and strode up to Mr Tweedy with an arrogant confidence. He waved in Mr Tweedy's face obnoxiously, and then knocked upon his head a few times. "Your farm? Try _my_ chicken pie supplier, you dopey twat! Why the FUCK do you think I'm here? If my fucking kitchen doesn't have exactly enough fucking pies for that giant fucking feast, fucking Mundus is going to raze the fucking Earth with fucking hellfire, or weren't you fucking paying fucking attention when we had that fucking meeting last year you fucking toss-pot?"

"...I was mac, I was," Mr Tweedy promised, and then jerked his head to where the chicken run used to be, "it's just... you know that ginger one?"

"Ginger, white, yellow, fucking speckled, they should all be PLUCKED and PINK!" Ramsey yelled, and delivered a fierce backhand that cracked Mr Tweedy's head back. "When I order my meat, I expect it dead on my doorstep. Not to go on a FUCKING safari hunt! I don't care if they flew away in a wooden hen or a fucking rocketship, you get those chickens back, you put them in a fucking pie, and you send them to my kitchen before noon tomorrow, or I'll shove my foot so far up your ass you'll be having my knee for seconds!"

"I 'ad a big lunch, I'm not too keen on seconds," Mr Tweedy informed the angry chef. Ramsey shoved past him and mounted his motorcycle again.

"You WILL be getting seconds if we don't feed fucking Mundus, Tweedy," Ramsey declared, and revved his engine up like a roaring tiger. "Seconds to fucking live! FUCK OFF!" Then he blasted off into the darkness, and just like that he was gone. Mr Tweedy was so stunned by the circumstances, he just stood there for a minute, trying to take it all in. Then he fell to his bum for a sit down, straight into the gravy. He didn't even sit on Mrs Tweedy.

"Ooh, this is bad, lads," he observed, tutting and shaking his head. No longer whimpering, the dogs approached Mr Tweedy, and each laid their heads on his lap. Mr Tweedy petted them absently as he thought. "If we want those apple pies, we need to stop that Mundus demon fella from destroying Earth... and if we wanna stop 'im, we need to get the chickens back to make those pies... but if we turn 'em into chicken pies, we can't make 'em into _apple_ pies. There's just no winning 'ere, lads. Tonight we're either going 'ungry or going to hell." Which was the lesser evil? For some reason, one of the dogs began to growl, so Mr Tweedy stood up with a start. As the dogs looked inquisitively at him though, the growling continued, and Mr Tweedy realized the noise was actually his rumbling stomach. "I'm bloody starving," he said, patting his big belly, and he couldn't take it any longer. A grim determination set his round face, and he faced the hills in the distance where the chickens had flew off.

"Ramsey won't clock if we keep a pie for ourselves, will he lads? So we'll be getting those chickens back... and I'm gonna eat me that ginger one." A rusty wheelbarrow laid nearby, and without warning, Mr Tweedy grabbed and swung it around like a hammer thrower. As it whirled through the air, the dogs scampered away quickly, and their tails finally begun to wag. A glint shone in one of Mr Tweeey's eyes, and he exclaimed: "let's rock, mac!" Geysers of gravy erupted like fireworks from the ground around Mr Tweedy, as he tossed the wheelbarrow high, high above. While it ascended, he performed a dazzling array of spot based acrobatics upon the ground, like a poem in the breeze. During a backflip, he kicked Mrs Tweedy's corpse high into the air.

"Sword Master!" He grabbed Mrs Tweedy by the foot and twirled around. In a ribbon-like swish, Mrs Tweedy was fashioned from flesh and bone into a deadly, pink blade, just as the wheelbarrow came hurtling back down to Earth. Before it crashed upon the ground, Mr Tweedy used his new Tweebellion to slice and dice the thing into a thousand different pieces.

"Yankee bloody Gun Slinger!" While these thousand pieces hovered in slow motion, Mr Tweedy held out his hands, and his two loyal dogs leapt towards him. Like shifting, liquid mercury, they reshaped into a pair of handguns, and Mr Tweedy spun as he caught them. Every one of those wheelbarrow pieces was a target, and he blasted them all with blistering, rapid fire from Fi and Do. Most of the bullets he'd fired were pinging back towards him, so Mr Tweedy quickly changed styles again.

"Crafty Bugger!" A blur of color, he flitted this way and that, moving at such an impossible speed he dodged the lead storm like a droplet of hydrophobic oil caught in the rain. His boots raised mud and gravy alike as he finally skidded to a stop. Only one part of the wheelbarrow hadn't been destroyed, and it was the wheel itself, which was now plummeting down towards Mr Tweedy.

"Queen's Guard, God bless!" Making an X with his arms at just the right time, Mr Tweedy perfectly shielded himself from the wheel. It ricocheted off him and rolled away out of sight. After all this excitement, everything went quiet, and Mr Tweedy had to double over and catch his breath. When his lungs stopped burning, he holstered Fi and Do in his trouser pockets, and then rubbed his hands together.

"Ooohh, that's champion, that is," he expressed his approval, pleased with his new weapons. His stomach felt more empty than ever now, but his soul was ablaze with a nourishing sense of purpose. "Listen up, the lot of yer," Mr Tweedy yelled out, slashing Tweebellion through the air and pointing her towards the horizon, towards his dinner. " _NO_ chicken escapes, from Tweedy's farm!"


End file.
